Of War and Morals
by Virtue
Summary: Borus Redrum: War is hell, but that's not half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty, war is fun. War is thrilling, war makes you dead.


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**Of War and Morals**

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own Konami or any of it's characters. If I did, I can guarantee you that I wouldn't be living off of borrowed lunch money during the week hah. The quote from my summary and from the first and last paragraph of this story are not mine. They belong rightfully to a book, specified at the bottom. I think I've pretty much proven that I'm the mooch of all mooches.

**A/N: **Maybe this sort of fiction on Borus is a bit overdone, but I never get sick of it. Between overhearing a conversation between my uncles on war (old vet geezers), and constantly being "wowed" by the book I'm reading, I felt I needed to write something hah. So here's the result.

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"_A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things that men have always done. If any war story you hear sounds moral, do not believe it. If at the end of hearing a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made a victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. You can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil."_

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Born rather wealthy- and being the second born of three children, everything was supplied in plenty as far back as Borus Redrum could remember. Their residence was one of the finest in Vinay Del Zexay and sat on a bit of a hill that slid into the shoreline of the ocean.

His mother was an idealist, and it showed despite her attempt to keep silent for the most part, hoping not to upset her husband's temper or seeming out of place in the role of a woman. So she put her energy towards the home. In the spring and summer evenings she had the maids open all the windows facing over the ocean, letting in the salty breeze and sound of smoothly overlapping waves that lulled both her and children to sleep during the night. In the daytime she would often sit in the garden, handpicking flowers to cut and place in various places around the house.

During the winters she reluctantly had the windows shut and sealed, to keep her home comfortable. But she compensated for the loss of constant ocean fresh air in other ways. She would throw away bouquets of the dead garden flowers and replace them with arrangements of cinnamon sticks, peppermint, cloves, and rosemary that her husband provided her from his more than successful business.

It was also during the winter months that his father was away the most. Travel was slower, because many roads were blocked due to weather conditions, and somehow the number of clients increased to the hundreds. And to keep his business booming, he spent most of his time out of the house. The Redrum children didn't much offense to this as some children would, because it was also during this time that their Uncle visited, to help his sister-in-law to keep after her rambunctious children. Despite this reasoning, they spent most of the time away from him during his visits. The four children would either be downstairs or as they grew a bit older, outside in the snow. But it was always made clear that it was forbidden to be upstairs with their Mother and Uncle.

He began aspiring to become a knight since the age of ten. The process had only taken one whole day. His brother and himself were yet again banished to the downstairs. His now seven year old sister Ademma can bursting through the door in the main hall, where he was sitting bored on the large green sofa. She had been hit by an ice ball by some neighborhood bully. He ran outside and set out to find the bully. From that day on, he was known as "the kid who broke the other kid's nose".

He was twelve when he first experienced death. At the funeral in the chapel, Borus approached the open casket and gulped. She didn't _look _the way he had imagined a dead person would look. Possibly she was still somehow alive. Her hair had been done in perfect little golden pipe curls, her cheeks artificially rosy, and her lips shut in such a way she had a peacefully solemn look to her sleeping expression. He looked away and vowed to himself that while _he _was a knight, such an innocent person as nine year old Ademma Redrum would never taste death.

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"Spit it out, man."

He barely felt a thing as his fist made contact with the wall. His best friend stood beside him, obviously concerned. And the reason Borus could tell he was obviously concerned was because Percival hardly showed an "obviously concerned" look to anyone outside of battle.

Borus spoke again without bothering to care that anyone around them could hear. "It's not bad to be passionate, especially about our work. It's a good trait for a knight. We live and die by the sword. But I went too far! I let anger control me!"

Another moment passed. Percival was obviously carefully calculating what he was going to say next. His tone was shakier than usual, but maintained low. "I think I would've done the same thing if I'd heard about the Lizard Clan's surprise attack and Myriam and Lanchet's deaths." He slowly took a breath and held his gaze steady at the blonde knight. "I'd be furious! Who wouldn't be?"

"When a knight starts to attack unarmed villagers," Borus's fist struck the wall more, his fist still numb to the manner he was using it. "he's no longer a man. He's an animal!"

He could no longer see the expression on Percival's face, but he knew what it was nonetheless. He was right, and Percival knew it.

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Later that night he lay entirely still on the bed in his room at Brass Castle, a passing rain cloud was going by in the night. Besides the current weather, this was a night similar to many. His eyes weighed down slowly again and again, but he wrestled with it all he could for fear of falling asleep. Because during the day he had a friend like Percival who was able to at least encourage some of the guilt away, but it was through the unconscious images in his dreams that made him really wonder if he was ever capable of being worthy of serving Lady Chris or protecting anyone like Ademma.

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"_In a true war story, if there's a moral at all, it's like the thread that makes the cloth. You can't tease it out. You can't extract the meaning without unraveling the deeper meaning. And in the end, really, there's nothing much to say about a true war story, except simply: 'Oh.' "_

_By: Tim O'Brien_

_The Things They Carried_

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